An Apache helicopter, courtesy of the Special Air Service, had plucked Bond from a field south of the Danube and whisked him to a NATO base in Germany, where a Hercules loaded with van parts completed his journey to London. He said, ‘Apparently they forgot to stock the galley.’
Tanner laughed. The retired army officer, a former lieutenant colonel, was a solid man in his fifties, ruddy of complexion and upright – in all senses of the word. He was in his usual uniform: dark trousers and light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Tanner had a tough job, running the ODG’s day-to-day operations, and by rights he should have had little sense of humour, though in fact, he had a fine one. He’d been Bond’s mentor when the young agent had joined and was now his closest friend within the organisation. Tanner was a devout golfer and every few weeks he and Bond would try to get out to one of the more challenging courses, like Royal Cinque Ports or Royal St George’s or, if time was tight, Sunningdale, near Windsor.
Tanner was, of course, generally familiar with Incident Twenty and the hunt for Noah, but Bond now updated him – and explained about his own downsized role in the UK operation.
The chief of staff gave a sympathetic laugh. ‘
‘Hardly have much choice,’ Bond allowed. ‘Is Whitehall still convinced that the threat’s out of Afghanistan?’
‘Let’s just say they
He meant politics, of course.
Then he nodded towards M’s office. ‘Did you catch his opinion on that security conference he’s been shanghaied to attend this week?’
‘Not much room for interpretation,’ Bond said.
Tanner chuckled.
Bond glanced at his watch and stood up. ‘I’ve got to meet a man from Division Three. Osborne-Smith. You know anything about him?’
‘Ah, Percy.’ Bill Tanner raised a cryptic eyebrow and smiled. ‘Good luck, James,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s best just to leave it at that.’
O Branch took up nearly the entire fourth floor.
It was a large open area, ringed with agents’ offices. In the centre were work stations for PAs and other support staff. It might have been the sales department of a major supermarket, if not for the fact that every office door had an iris scanner and keypad lock. There were many flatscreen computers in the centre but none of the giant monitors that seemed
Bond strode through this busy area and nodded a greeting to a blonde in her mid twenties, perched forward in her office chair, presiding over an ordered work space. Had Mary Goodnight worked for any other department, Bond might have invited her to dinner and seen where matters led from there. But she wasn’t in any other department: she was fifteen feet from his office door and was his human diary, his portcullis and drawbridge, and was capable of repelling the unannounced firmly and, most important in government service, with unimprovable tact. Although none were on view, Goodnight occasionally received – from office mates, friends and dates – cards or souvenirs inspired by the film
‘Good morning, Goodnight.’
That play on words, and others like it, had long ago moved from flirtatiousness to affection. They had become like an endearment between spouses, almost automatic and never tiresome.
Goodnight ran through his appointments for the day but Bond told her to cancel everything. He’d be meeting a man from Division Three, coming over from Thames House, and afterwards he might have to be off at a minute’s notice.
‘Shall I hold the signals too?’ she asked.
Bond considered this. ‘I suppose I’ll plough through them now. Should probably clear my desk anyway. If I have to be away, I don’t want to come back to a week’s worth of reading.’
She handed him the top-secret green-striped folders. With approval from the keypad lock and iris scanner beside his door Bond entered his office and turned on the light. The space wasn’t small by London office standards, about fifteen by fifteen, but was rather sterile. His government-issue desk was slightly larger than, but the same colour as, his desk at Defence Intelligence. The four wooden bookshelves were filled with volumes and periodicals that had been, or might be, helpful to him and varied in subject from the latest hacking techniques used by the Bulgarians to Thai idioms to a guide for reloading Lapua.338 sniper rounds. There was little of a personal nature to brighten the room. The one object he might have had on display, his Conspicuous Gallantry Cross, awarded for his duty in Afghanistan, was in the bottom drawer of his desk. He’d accepted the honour with good grace, but to Bond, courage was simply another tool in a soldier’s kit and he saw no more point in displaying indications of its past use than in hanging a spent cipher pad on the wall.
Bond now sat in his chair and began to read the signals – intelligence reports from Requirements at MI6, suitably buffed and packaged. The first was from the Russia Desk. Their Station R had managed to hack into a government server in Moscow and suck out some classified documents. Bond, who had a natural facility for language and had studied Russian at Fort Monckton, skipped the English synopsis and went to the raw intelligence.
He got one paragraph into the leaden prose when two words stopped him in his tracks. The Russian words for ‘Steel Cartridge’.
The phrase pinged deep inside him, just as sonar on a submarine notes a distant but definite target.
Steel Cartridge appeared to be a code name for an ‘active measure’, the Soviet term describing a tactical operation. It had involved ‘some deaths’.
But there was nothing specific on operational details.
Bond sat back, staring at the ceiling. He heard women’s voices outside his door and looked up. Philly, holding several files, was chatting with Mary Goodnight. Bond nodded and the Six agent joined him, taking a wooden chair opposite his desk.
‘What’ve you found, Philly?’
She sat forward, crossing her legs, and Bond believed he heard the appealing rustle of nylon. ‘First, your photo skills were fine, James, but the light was too low. I couldn’t get high enough resolution of the Irishman’s face for recognition. And there were no prints on the pub bill or the other note, except for a partial of yours.’
So, the man would have to remain anonymous for the time being.
‘But the prints on the glasses were good. The local was Aldo Karic, Serbian. He lived in Belgrade and worked for the national railway.’ She pursed her lips in frustration, which emphasised the charming dimple. ‘But it’s going to take a little longer than I’d hoped to get more details. The same with the haz-mat on the train. Nobody’s saying anything. You were right – Belgrade’s not in the mood to co-operate.
‘Now for the slips of paper you found in the burning car. I got some possible locations.’
Bond noted the printouts she was producing from a folder. They were of maps emblazoned with the cheerful logo of MapQuest, the online directions-finding service. ‘Are you having budget problems at Six? I’d be happy to ring the Treasury for you.’
She laughed, a breathy sound. ‘I used proxies, of course. Just wanted an idea of where on the pitch we’re playing.’ She tapped one. ‘The receipt? The pub is here.’ It was just off the motorway near Cambridge.
Bond stared at the map. Who had eaten there? The Irishman? Noah? Other associates? Or someone who’d hired the car last week and had no connection whatsoever with Incident Twenty?
‘And the other piece of paper? With the writing on it?’
She produced a lengthy list. ‘I tried to think of every possible combination of what it could
